(Mostly written for myself, to solidify voice and character lore)
The space was empty save for two, the regular and the dead man. Everyone else had gone for the night and the doors to the speakeasy were locked as well as the main entry to the facade upstairs. This far down, you couldn’t hear the shuffling footsteps of the Eidolon as she swept the wooden floors above them. Mr. Cannon strode to the jukebox by the stairs and selected an album of soft jazz and piano. He looked up at the regular sitting at the bar in her typical space with the remains of a once-dimpled smile.
“You keep staying late, I’ll put you to work,” he grinned. She smiled back.
He went about his nightly routine, washing plates and hanging the glasses back on racks like a chandelier. The regular sipped a glass of water, engaging in small chit chat as the minutes wore on. Eventually, the man sat down in a stool beside her with two coffees.
“Thank you,” she said, “but what’s the occasion?”
“Must there be one?”
“I suppose not.”
They sat in silence for a moment, taking in the aroma and taste of the warm coffee. The regular’s eyes wandered to the sparkling bauble that hung from the dead man’s neck. A golden band.
“What’s that?” she nodded at the necklace. Hannibal looked down reflexively until it dawned on him her meaning.
“Ah, this. It’s my wedding ring. I can’t wear it anymore of course.”
“You were married?”
He nodded with a smile, “For 20 years in fact.”
“What happened to her? Or….him?”
“Oh she passed away, too young I think. She was 16 when we met, I was 25. Took me some time to convince her parents, but after a few years of my proving myself, we were allowed to wed. It helped, of course, that I owned this place by then.”
“What year was it?”
“That would have made it...oh…. About 1850. We married in 1851, she was 18 and I was nearly 28. I’d taken over the restaurant when Eleazer died the year before.”
The regular nodded and sipped her coffee, looking at him to encourage him to continue.
“Oh you want the whole story do you?” he chuckled robustly, “It’s not a very happy story, you know. No, though it no longer causes me any melancholy, I find that telling it can often blacken a room.”
She shook her head a little, with the slightest upturns at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t mind a little darkness. The truth was, Hannibal had been here so long, yet his story was not well known. Perhaps it was somehow the same as his way of disappearing in plain sight behind the bar, only seeming to appear just as someone began contemplating their next drink or to laugh when a joke almost didn’t land. He had a way of being there when you needed him.
“I’d love to know your story,” she said with utmost warmth.
“Then let me refill our cups.”
—
I was born in London in 1824 to a very poor family. My father was a Ferrier as was his father and so on. Lafe Sixsmith was his name. He worked as hard as he did, so that our family may immigrate to America. Sadly, he wouldn’t live to see that day. My mother was a shrewd woman and had made arrangements for the family should something ever happen, but she only had enough for me. My older cousin and I were sent to America, as was my father’s dying wish, for us to leave the smoke of London for clean countryside in the Land of the Free.
I needn’t share the details of those first years staying with my aunt and uncle. No, the story begins here doesn’t it? I met Mr. Eleazer Cannon in 1839 and through some form of good luck or divine intervention, he needed someone of my build and talents to assist him— I was a tall teenager of 15 then, but skinny as a rail. He put me to work, and oh, did I work. The Cannons were like a family to me, their son Luca, was only 2 years my junior and in the few years I knew him, he’d become my bosom companion. They were an odd family though. I thought it queer even then that never did I see a single crucifix or Bible in their home or establishment. They didn’t go to church, though they never got chastised for it...let me explain.
Luca was a good boy, a charming boy, but he was always ill... like his mother Annamarie. I think now it might have been autoimmune or diabetes. They never went to church and claimed they had their service themselves at home for their sick boy. But… everything changed when Luca died. Annamarie was beside herself with grief, and my understanding of the interworkings of the household became clearer. Several times I happened upon her in the basement storehouse, encircled by candles, once drenched in the blood of a slaughtered calf. I didn’t ask. It wasn’t my place.
It wasn’t long after Luca’s death his mother joined him in eternal peace. A broken heart the physicians told us. It was a quiet night when Mr. Cannon pulled me aside and told me his hope to continue what his wife had devoted the last year of her life to achieving — bringing dear Luca back to us. His body they kept, and likewise so he kept hers. He thought he could bring them both back.
We carried on for a time. I looked after the alehouse more and more as Mr. Cannon’s obsession spiraled into what the townspeople began to see as madness. It was during this dark time my ray of light came into my life. Euphemia. You can see now why her parents might not approve. She was so young, and I was the apprentice of a madman. Nevertheless, we wrote to each other and stole precious moments alone in courtyards of hyacinth and ivy.
A few years after that...2 maybe? Three? Mr. Cannon closed up the bar for the night and brought me a drink, much like this, but instead of coffee it was his finest wine. It was the anniversary of his marriage. He poured our drinks and rambled on about how much he missed his family and grateful for me he was, that I was like a second son. At the end he told me, “Hannibal, you must promise to remember us forever. You mustn’t let our family pass out of the world. Promise me, you’ll take care of this place after I’ve gone?” I nodded and he took my arm, “Promise me,” he said. And I told him, “Of course, I’ll always remember you, until the day I die.” His eyes were far away, yet they pierced my very soul, “Remember us forever, Hannibal.” I was frightened, even at that age, I felt like a little boy again. I told him yes, and he toasted our glasses and drank.
He was dead by morning.
I thought perhaps he’d poisoned us both, but obviously not. And I saw him pour our drinks, so there was no poison added to his. I don’t know exactly how he died, but I can guess.
You see, reanimating a corpse is relatively simple work even for new magicians. But...retrieving a soul from Heaven or Hell...now that requires a stronger power altogether. I think, at some point he realized this. I think he realized no ordinary man could ever dream of returning loved ones back from the grave, not for real. What I think he concluded was, the trick is to prevent them from going in the first place.
I don’t know what he did. I found no spell nor talisman. I married the woman of my dreams and she became Mrs. Euphemia Sixsmith. And for years we ran Cannon’s Alehouse together. All of my children were born right here in Paragon City many years ago. It was 12 years into our marriage I took a trip down South. I took my eldest son John with me to visit an old family friend of the Cannons who owned a small plantation outside of Charleston. We spent a lovely week there and even ventured into town several times, John loved it. On our way back, however, as the sun went down, we ran into some highwaymen. I...don’t remember what happened all too well, likely something my mind chose to forget.
I awoke with a throat full of earth, in a shallow grave 60 miles outside Charleston. After digging myself out, I looked for John. I found him buried next to me, cold as the dew-soaked grass. I managed a ride home, but troubles had only begun. Our son was gone, and what could I say? I began to realize that I, too, was no longer alive. If the stab wound to my abdomen that refused to bleed or heal wasn’t enough, I was pale — almost grey — my hair no longer grew, my heart was still, my skin was cold. I can’t tell you how many nights I held my wife in my arms as she cried. I would have cried with her if I could.
We continued on with our lives as best we could. As the months turned into years, we started to understand the intricacies of my condition — that’s how we treated it, like an illness. We knew I was cursed, but what can you do about it? The solution to my condition was to complete my death. I was stuck between two states… knowing I was dead, yet still here with my children, still existing with proof of it. The first years did the most damage — I was used to the knowledge I would heal. It took practice to avoid damage — I don’t call it injury anymore, because it never gets better. I learned to avoid things like water, and fire obviously.
Well….anyway. After a time, decay began to make itself known. I can’t describe how frightened I was. Euphemia was as loyal a wife as any man could ask for, but I was confined to the house, away from society. Everything fell on her. When I lost my leg in an accident, and we realized the solution was to find a… a replacement… I think she realized she couldn’t do it anymore. I kissed my children goodbye and they left to live with her family. She told them I died. It wasn’t a lie. I watched as I widowed my wife.
I closed the alehouse and dwelled in the apartment above and the storehouse below. The Cannons had left the place with a reputation already, but after that, most people believed the tavern was truly haunted. And that, my friend, is how the next stage of Cannon’s Alehouse began. I started to attract others like me: the undead, the ghosts, the monsters. Wizards, witches, warlocks, magicians, and all manner of magical folk. These people were as displaced as I. I reopened, and as I did, the memories of Mrs. Cannon doused in calf’s blood flashed through my mind. Somehow, I had found myself surrounded by everything I needed.
I suppose the rest is history. Soon it would be the turn of the century and the 1900s would bring more changes than I could have ever imagined. Now I’m happy to be open to anyone who needs a place to take shelter from the world.
—
The regular had long since finished her coffee, and Hannibal’s had gone cold. She looked at his beverage, “How do you drink that then?”
He laughed, “You don’t want to know.”
“Fair enough,” she glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, “What will you do when — well, nevermind, I suppose that’s rude to ask.”
“I have decayed and fallen apart? I don’t know. Find out when it happens I suppose.”
She nodded. “You must have so many stories.”
He smiled and nodded, “But for another night. Come, I’ll walk you out.”